One Good Turn
by Aki1
Summary: AU / A reformed criminal and a young acrobat have nothing in common, except the bridges they want to burn. / slash, one-shot


Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do not own, please do not sue.

Author's Notes: For _Hedonistic Opportunist_, whose contribution to making the past year wonderful for me cannot be overstated. Enjoy the fruits of your efforts in making me fall in love with this pairing in new ways every day!

Warnings: Some mature themes and coarse language, and AU-ness to the extreme.

Enjoy! Reviews are love :)

* * *

**.: one good turn**

Schneizel didn't need Kanon's successive, increasingly frantic texts: he saw and heard the squad cars arriving in a line, seven of them (_overkill_) with their sirens blaring. He sighed, pocketed his phone, and stepped out of his car.

Ever since he moved to New York, he could not remember having a single peaceful Saturday.

He waited for the policemen to jog up the street before cutting off their path a good distance away, raising his badge to eye-level. "I'm Detective Britannia," he announced calmly, "Homicide. You two can block off all the exits at street level, the rest of you are with me."

"Sir," one of the men looked surprised. "Has there been a death?"

"Not yet. But the suspect," he nodded towards the building to his right, "is involved in an ongoing homicide investigation. And if we wait any longer, there just might be." He sighed. "Are there any other questions?"

There were no more, just a chorus of '_Sir!_', which was as it should be.

"Good." Schneizel nodded, and began heading to the rear entrance. The rhythmic patter of footsteps against the pavement behind him was in sync with his own heartbeat, but he'd been at this job long enough so that it didn't show. "We've taken down all the elevators remotely, so he's not going anywhere quickly. We'll start from the basement and work our way up."

"Yes, sir!"

By this time, they'd already just entered the basement. Washing machines and dryers lined opposite walls, and the air was moist and smelled of fabric softener. He gestured to the exit to the main hallway with his Glock, and waited for the men to file through.

Once the last man was out the door, he took out his cellphone. He scrolled to a contact he'd never actually used before - one that was labelled, simply, 'Burn' - and sent a one-word text.

.

* * *

.

Seven weeks ago, Schneizel had been in his office, already halfway through his third cup of coffee for the day. And it wasn't even noon yet.

"Are you taking this one?" Kanon asked him. He handed Schneizel a file, and nodded at the door. "Interrogation room 2. Suspect from last week's Darlton robbery."

"A _live _one?" Schneizel thumbed through the file quickly, and managed a smile. "Must be Christmas."

"Don't speak so soon," Kanon sighed. "We're not even sure if he's going to talk."

"Mmm." Schneizel's eyes skimmed over the essentials: Suzaku Kururugi, 18 years of age. His last listed address was a US Post Office outlet in Brooklyn. "No known next of kin?" he clarified, gulping down the last of this cup.

Kanon was already handing him another one. Schneizel smiled. The man had been his partner for only the past three years, and in that time had gone from being a disgusted critic of his caffeine addiction, to a bona fide enabler. "None that we know of. The only reason we were able to call him in is because his DNA matched blood from the crime scene."

Schneizel frowned. "Why was he in the system?" He flipped a few pages in the file, and got his answer. "Ah."

"Yeah." Kanon checked his watch. "So, you want him or not?"

"Yes please." Schneizel took a generous sip of his coffee - one milk, half a packet of sugar; Kanon really did know him too well by now. "I've been waiting for a lead with a pulse for a week."

"Well, he's all yours. Have fun."

The boy didn't look all that different from the mugshot in his file. He was seated rather stiffly, his arms handcuffed behind the back of the chair, staring out the window. His brown hair looked unkempt and a bit dirty.

"Suzaku Kururugi, is it?" Schneizel smiled, and closed the door behind him. "How long has it been since someone called you by that name?"

Suzaku looked up at him then, and Schneizel paused momentarily. Those green eyes weren't very remarkable in the picture, but in real life they were quite something.

"I didn't kill anyone." The boy's voice was subdued, and barely audible over the sound of traffic outside.

"You know what? I'm actually inclined to believe you." He chuckled, and sat down on the chair opposite Suzaku. He opened the folder and went over the contents again in his head, making sure to keep it _just _out of Suzaku's sight. "I'm in a pretty good mood today, for a Monday."

Suzaku paused, as though he'd been about to say something, but then suddenly no longer had a reason to. "Then... why am I here?" he asked, confused.

"Because I think you know something about a case that's been very, very vexing." He removed his glasses, wiped them on the hem of his shirt. He then pocketed them and propped his arms against the table, looking Suzaku straight in the eye. "Tell me what happened last week. Wednesday night, between ten and midnight."

Suzaku hesitated. "I was at - "

"No, you weren't." Schneizel just smiled slightly.

"I didn't even - "

"You were going to lie. And from what I see, you're not very good at it."

Suzaku glared at him. "If you'd let me - "

"All right, I'll help you: you were working that night. But not the kind of job that requires you to fill out a timesheet, I'm sure."

Suzaku rolled his eyes and sighed. "If you've got it all figured out, then why don't you just arrest me and be done with it?"

"I thought you said you didn't kill anyone."

Suzaku frowned, and then lowered his eyes, staring at the folder.

Schneizel sighed after a few long seconds of silence, too long for his liking. "One week ago, Andreas Darlton's apartment was broken into by a group of thieves communicating with one another over an unused AM radio frequency. The perpetrators knew he was out of town, knew the layout of the building, knew their target and how to get it." Schneizel tilted his head. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"

The boy swallowed, and shook his head. But he was avoiding Schneizel's eyes, and seemed to be chewing on his bottom lip.

"Are you sure?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Lancelot?"

Suzaku froze.

Schneizel gave him time to collect his thoughts, turning the pages deliberately slowly. "You know we wouldn't even have known about the robbery at all. We weren't going to, until an amateur ham radio operator contacted us after picking up on your, hmmm, let's call it 'professional communication.'" He chuckled, and replaced his glasses. "I have the transcript right here, shall we take a look?"

Suzaku fidgeted in his seat, his eyes darting around the room. More than once, the handcuffs clinked against wood.

"I have to say, from what I'm seeing here, this was a _very_ thoroughly-planned operation." He adjusted his glasses so that they sat more comfortably on the bridge of his nose. "Percival, the wheel man, was to guard the perimeter and... provide _worst-case scenario_ services." He rattled off facts as though reading out a grocery list. "An off-site hacker, Mordred, took care of the security systems while front man Tristan used a typical con to get into the highest possible unit below the penthouse." Schneizel tapped his pen against the desk, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Unfortunately, that was still six stories down from your Darlton's apartment, which meant that _Lancelot_..." Schneizel eyed Suzaku meaningfully, "needed to close the distance." He paused. "So a grease man completes the heist, I take it?"

Instead of answering, though, Suzaku merely looked at him. "Does the NYPD get its training from Steven Soderbergh movies?"

Schneizel raised his eyebrows, and let out a surprised huff of a laugh. He hadn't seen that one coming. But he didn't mind; he rather enjoyed it when suspects had lip on them.

"No matter what it is you call yourself," he smiled, "you don't deny involvement in the robbery? It would be too easy if you did, anyway."

Green eyes flashed. "I'm not a criminal."

"No?" Schneizel held up the folder and calmly waved it around in front of his face. "Page seven of this wonderful set of documents references a sealed juvie record. It'll be a pain to open, but I wonder if the effort will be worth it. Hmmm?"

For a moment, something other than defiance flashed through Suzaku's features. He looked down at the folder, and his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"Fine. I was there." He sighed, and bent his head slightly, muttering something that escaped Schneizel's ears, possibly in Japanese.

"Now we're getting somewhere." Schneizel smiled again, that same small, half-smile which was about the only kind he knew how to wear anymore. "You were Lancelot."

"I was Lancelot."

Schneizel nodded, and motioned at him to continue.

"I..." Suzaku swallowed again, and his eyes were still fixed onto the folder when he continued. "The floors below the penthouse were all reserved - function rooms, utility rooms. Something about the previous owners not wanting any direct neighbors." He showed a glimpse of teeth when he laughed - nice, straight. Interesting. "The penthouse took up the 30th and 31st floors. Tristan was on the 24th."

Schneizel had been reading along, the transcript open in front of him. He stopped at a particular line, read and re-read it.

And then, he got up from his seat.

Suzaku tensed visibly as he approached, but with his handcuffs it wasn't as if he could go anywhere. And so he could only sit there, stiff and awkward, when Schneizel crouched down in front of him, and took the hem of his sweater in his hand.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?"

Schneizel ignored the boy's protests as he lifted the material up, up. The tan on his face and hands extended to the rest of his body; the muscles on his abdomen were prominent - expected, perhaps, in the boy's line of work. He felt heat beneath his fingers, shifting as Suzaku breathed, and for a moment...

For a moment...

For a moment, nothing. Because the gash that ran along his side, jagged and clearly only having been subject to a sorry state of treatment, was nowhere close to fully healed.

"You don't have to tell me how you got this," Schneizel told him, finally breaking the silence. "But something went terribly, terribly wrong that night. What was it? And while you're at it..." He released the sweater. "What exactly were you _after_?"

Suzaku looked at him, and something wavered. Schneizel would have pointed out the amusing flush in his cheeks (again, interesting), if it hadn't been for the words he said next: "Don't I... get the right to a lawyer, or something?"

Shit. "Two of your crewmates," Schneizel told him sternly, "are _dead_. Luciano Bradley, a.k.a Percival, as you already know was killed on the scene. Died when he bled out of a retaliatory shot to the stomach from the doorman he killed with a goddamn Bowie knife. But that's not what's intriguing. Do you know what is?" He took the empty chair, lifted it over the table and placed it so he could sit and look Suzaku square in the eye. "Mordred. Found tortured and beaten in her apartment not three days after the heist. You want to hear the cause of death? A bullet between the eyes fired point-blank - "

"Wait," Suzaku interrupted, his eyes wide. "Mordred was a woman?"

Schneizel frowned, and for a second he was completely at a loss. "You... didn't know?"

Suzaku shook his head, looking shell-shocked. "No, we... Mordred always spoke in a muffled voice, but I always assumed... oh God."

Ten years at this job had already made Schneizel used to being the bearer of bad news. Rarely, though, was it delivered to suspects themselves. "Her name was Anya Alstreim," he murmured, pulling out the relevant document. "She was younger than you - turned sixteen last month."

"Oh God," he said again.

Schneizel decided to skip the pictures of the corpse, for both their sakes. "If I had to hazard a guess," he said quietly, "something about this heist set off something nasty, and you're all in danger. Percival - Bradley, that is, was a given, and the guy probably had it coming, but Alstreim...?" He leaned in closer, until Suzaku's eyes (brilliant; just, a _brilliant_green - irrelevant, of course) were only inches from his. "How long do you think you have left, before whoever got to her gets to you?"

Suzaku looked back at him. For the longest time, he didn't say a word, and the look in his eyes was haunted.

Like this, he looked so very young - far too young to be embroiled in this much heat. He looked... _scared_, and Schneizel almost wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, assure him that everything would be all right, until he realized that was _stupid_.

But eventually, and somewhat surprisingly, the boy's stare gave way to something much colder. "I want a lawyer."

Schneizel sighed. "Of course you do." Gathering up the files, and his precious coffee, he turned around and headed for the door. "I'll be back."

Kanon looked up from his desk when he walked out. That stack of paperwork on his desk looked as though it had been there for weeks. "Well?"

"He lawyered up." Sighing, Schneizel rubbed at his eyes, accidentally smudging up his lenses with his fingers. Some days, he just kept forgetting that he had these blasted things on. "How long before we can get one in here?"

"What's the rush?"

"No rush." Schneizel sighed, and picked up the phone at his desk. He was pretty proud of how it didn't come out sounding like a lie.

(He still remembered that phone call - just thirty minutes after that 911 call, he'd heard Bismarck Waldstein's voice for the first time in a decade: _"Fix this, please. For old time's sake."_)

He'd cursed under his breath then.

He did so again now, just for the memory of it.

Ten minutes later, he finally tracked down the one attorney in the tri-state area who had better things to do than actually eat lunch during her lunch break. She promised to be there as soon as she could, which meant he now owed another lawyer a favor. Wonderful.

"All right," he sighed, and was on his fifth cup of coffee when he opened the door to the interrogation room. "Your lawyer is on her way, but while she's not here, are you... sure..."

He trailed off, stunned.

The room was empty. The open window let wind into the room, and the curtains fluttered mockingly.

That window opened to the street below - four long stories below.

Schneizel stood there, looking at the discarded handcuffs lying on the floor, until he could take it no longer, and chuckled.

.

* * *

.

Fortunately, though, the whole day at least wasn't a loss.

The day's redemption came in the form of a young woman leaning against the door to his apartment, a smile frozen on her face. It widened as she saw him come closer, and she tapped idly on the Rolex around her wrist, two sizes too large. "Long day at work?"

"Always." Schneizel looked around to make sure no-one was in the hallway with them. "Were you followed?"

She let out a short laugh, and flipped some of her long hair over her shoulder. "No. You ask that question, but not if I'm armed?"

He paused in the middle of unlocking his door, and eyed the tight, hip-hugging black number she had on, with the slit halfway up to her thigh. "A dress like that? You have no secrets." The door unlocked with a click, and he pushed it open. "Catherine."

"Schneizel." She returned the greeting with a nod, and strode purposefully into the apartment, heels clicking against the hardwood.

He'd met Catherine Crane at a party eight years ago, a retirement celebration for one of the senior officers at the department. The function had been tolerable at best, and he was just heading out when he saw her scampering past, her heels slung over her shoulder. Her hair had danced behind her...and it had been red then, before it was blonde and black and now blonde again, and he was beginning to think he'd never know _what_she really looked like underneath all her transformations)

In any case, he could think of few reasons why a woman would ever be in such a hurry. And so ever since that night he'd tripped and 'taken care' of the men trying to kill her, she never quite made any effort to permanently exit his life.

It wasn't as though he would want that, no; the woman provided very _unique_services. She specialized in a kind of work that you couldn't list on an employment form, and yet wouldn't get you automatically arrested either, at least not in this city. That fine line.

"You could have called ahead," he told her. Schneizel was nothing if not a good host, and he was already uncorking a bottle; she only ever drank red wine. And she only ever _ate_one other thing whenever she came over, and so... "Delivery is going to take at least 45 minutes, what with the dinner rush."

"That's fine." She was lying on her stomach, on top of his couch, black velvet giving way to show an alarming expanse of leg. "More importantly though, you're going to love me."

Schneizel raised an eyebrow. "You found something?"

She laughed. "Why else would I be here?" Rolling over, she reached into an inside pocket of her dress. It was located in a such a place that Schneizel was just about to turn around in the name of decency, but she produced the item before he had to: a memory stick, small, unmarked. "Got this from a jogger who'd been passing by the area at around the time of the robbery. The quality's not that great, but for a cellphone camera it should serve you just fine."

He took the item from her and tried not to comment; it was still warm. "Did you watch it?" he asked instead.

"Of course."

"What's in it?"

"Watch it for yourself." She chuckled, and leaned back, giving him a closed smile. "I promise you it's worth it."

Her payment came in a cheque, paid to the order of "CASH" as always. They talked about trivial things then, waiting for her pizza to arrive. He didn't check the drive himself at the time because he knew he didn't have to; despite everything, she always delivered on her promises.

"Just out of curiosity," he said to her, when she was already on her fourth slice and the wine was half-finished. "How is he?"

Catherine nipped daintily at a string of cheese. "Hmmm?"

Schneizel gave her a look.

"He's doing well." She sighed and sat up, her legs swinging thoughtfully through the gap under the dining chair. "All things considered. He still has to wear that stupid ankle brace, and he plays a lot of online poker. A _lot_." She sniffed. "Other than that, nothing remarkable to report."

"I see. And..." (No, this was not a good question to ask, this was _never_a good question - ) "Does he still hate me?" (Shit.)

Catherine stared at him for a long time. He tried to extract some kind of message from those honey-colored eyes, but it was like looking for buried treasure by stirring sand with a twig. "He doesn't talk about you. At least, not to me."

Schneizel nodded, and decided that maybe that was good news.

It had to be him: he was the one who'd taken his own brother into custody, who'd suffered through the same court proceedings and graciously accepted a few weeks' suspension as he was investigated for 'conflict of interest'.

_Word on the streets was that a Britannia could get away with murder, but a sitting mayor in the crosshairs meant no-one got away clean._

As she did at the end of every visit, Catherine held her hand out and beckoned meaningfully. "The burn phone, if you please."

"Ah." Schneizel nodded, and walked to his nightstand. He didn't bother trying to hide from her as he opened the farthest right drawer, the one with the false bottom. It was a simple flip-phone, the model probably ten years old by now, but still in pristine condition.

It held only one contact, and he couldn't even access the information.

He handed it to her, and as she began typing in a new number, he quipped, "Wouldn't it be easier to just get one permanent number, for _all_your clients? Forever?"

She smiled, and a part of him saw the answer coming: "Too easy."

Schneizel watched her leave, as she always did, still nibbling on her last slice of pizza, a careless backward wave the only thing he got in the way of goodbye.

_You know how to reach me._

_.  
_

* * *

.

That night, after an unremarkable workout and only slightly more satisfying shower, Schneizel decided to spare his liver any more abuse and make himself a cup of tea.

He sipped at it slowly, watching the video Catherine had given him on his computer. The machine was old, and in terrible need of a proper backup. But it suited him just fine.

He was playing back the recording they'd obtained from the radio operator, and so far, the heist was running smoothly as planned.

_By around 9:00 pm Mordred had remotely activated the carbon dioxide monitor in apartment 2408. She'd then hacked into the tenant's phone line and intercepted the call to the company that manufactured those alarms._

At 10:05 pm, Tristan entered the building in full costume, posing as a repairman for the alarm company. By 10:08 he was in the unit. At this approximate time, Percival was loitering around the building, and, according to Tristan, he looked "like a goddamn hobo, hah!"

At 10:22 pm, when the 'repair' was complete and the tenant went to retrieve her checkbook, another person entered the unit ("Lancelot? Nice to meet you, I'm Tristan!") and headed straight for the balcony before she was any wiser.

There was an error range of several minutes, but this was the point in the recording when the video started.

Schneizel paused in stirring his tea, watching intently.

The video really was rather grainy; the owner had tried to zoom in as much as possible. Schneizel didn't exactly blame her - he would have done the exact same thing had he seen what she saw.

_At 10:23 pm, Lancelot exited the 24th floor balcony and, without any equipment or support, began to free-climb his way to the penthouse._

There was something hypnotizing about watching Suzaku scale the side of the building, making it look so effortless. Even with the rather poor video quality Schneizel could make out the tight black bodysuit that clung to his limbs, the way wind whipped his hair all around. The recording was silent at this point, as though the other three had mutually agreed that silence was paramount: that with the slightest distraction, they would end up with one of their colleagues very vividly _painted_onto the sidewalk below.

So it was, anyway, until just before 10:30, just when Lancelot was within reach of the penthouse landing, and Percival suddenly broke the silence with: _"Shit. We have a fucking problem."_

Two days later, Schneizel was buried in paperwork when he overheard someone near the desk sergeant: "I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge of the Darlton robbery?"

He thought nothing of it then. Not very many witnesses had come forward, but there were a few. Most of them were contacts of Darlton himself - friends, acquaintances who gave rather conflicting descriptions of the man who had refused to cut his Europe trip short. When asked what the man could possibly have in his possession that was worth stealing, pretty much all of them drew a blank.

(The recording stopped right after Percival killed the doorman; the last thing one could hear was an incredulous "This is _it_?!" after Tristan and Lancelot had opened the safe, and then the audio went dead.)

Schneizel sighed. He'd turned this over and over in his head: Darlton was a former military man, a retired three-star general who was now something of a rising star in local politics. On social issues he carefully treaded the center line, but he exuded pure patriotism as well as a seemingly genuine sympathy for the lower and middle classes that attracted potential voters across the demographics board. Granted, the mayoral elections weren't for another year, but still...

The man had been rather vocal against organized crime as well, Schneizel remembered. Naturally, that had made Darlton's relationship with his father icy at best. But Bismarck, ever his father's trusty lap dog, hadn't asked him to botch the case, or sweep it under the rug: he'd asked him to _solve_it. How the hell did that figure?

"Hi!"

Schneizel looked up, momentarily confused. The voice was the same, and it belonged to the tall man now standing in front of him, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Hello, sorry. Can I help you?"

"I think it's the other way around," he chuckled. "I have some information about the Darlton case, and I was told you were the guy to go to."

"Yes... yes, that's right." He pushed the stacks of papers aside, trying to find a pen. "Have a seat, please. Your name, sir?"

The man grinned. "Tristan."

.

* * *

.

Kanon was the one who handled the interrogation this time, and when he left the room the look on his face told Schneizel all he needed to know. "Dead end?"

His partner sighed, and took a swig out of his coffee cup. Schneizel didn't even protest. "His name is Gino Weinberg, also 18. He's got a record, minor offenses that were all dismissed or dropped before he ever had to set foot in a courtroom. His list of aliases reads like a goddamn phonebook."

Schneizel chuckled. "We expected as much. He was their front man, wasn't he?" The smoothest talker was often the man whose face could open doors; why force someone to give up something when you could have him hand it to you with a smile? "Anything useful?"

Kanon shook his head. "Only confirmed what we already know, and he was aware of Alstreim's death. I think that's why he turned himself in."

Schneizel kept a neutral face. "How do you figure?"

"Well after they practically botched the heist, and then what happened with Alstreim, I think he figures they're being hunted down." Kanon shrugged. "It's a reasonable assumption."

He thought so too. "It's still not terribly ambitious," Schneizel argued. "He's still going to do time. And with his face in the system, he's going to find it very hard to get work once he gets out."

Kanon downed the rest of the coffee then. And as Gino was led out of the room in handcuffs, waving at them with a wink, he said something Schneizel was hoping not to hear: "Then he knows that the alternative is worse."

.

* * *

.

Schneizel suddenly had an unpleasant vision in his dream that night: of a body left in a dumpster, riddled with bullets, eyes glassy and green and very much dead.

He tried to rescuscitate the boy, for some reason. He got on his hands and knees and placed his lips over Suzaku's, immediately tasting blood. He might even have swallowed some of it. Still he kept on, pressing down on his chest, messing up the count between compressions more than a few times and choking on blood. It didn't matter. He didn't want to give up.

And more importantly, he didn't want to dig out the bullets because for some reason, he just _knew_ he'd find one intact, and he _knew_it would be monogrammed.

He awoke with a start when he heard his phone vibrate against the night table.

And this was silly, he told himself, cursing as he groped for his glasses. Suzaku had _chosen_ not to cooperate with them. If anything happened to him, he was just as much to blame, not only for being part of that whole farce in the first place, but for not knowing how to read the writing on the wall. Schneizel could not, _would_not, do anything for him then.

He sighed. His alarm had been set for six, as always, but the clock informed him it was 5:15 am, which made things even worse.

The feeling of dread from the dream never quite left him though. And it only got worse when he unlocked his phone (his _normal_one), and read the simple message from Bismarck Waldstein:

_'Gramercy Tavern, 8 sharp. It's urgent.'_

Schneizel stared at the words for a long time, wondering what to do.

Maybe Suzaku wasn't the only one for whom time was running out.

.

* * *

.

Bismarck still looked the same as the last time Schneizel had seen him: the dark tailored suit, the perpetual crease in his brow, the sunglasses that did little to hide the old injury to his left eye. He even chose the same booth, next to the windows facing West, away from the sun, and sat with his back to the kitchen. The man had always been paranoid like that, and was always one to make sure he had a clear view of the door.

And so it was that Bismarck spotted Schneizel coming in before he'd even fully entered the restaurant. Their eyes met as the hostess took his coat, and when he strolled up to their table he didn't even get a hello: "You've put on weight."

Schneizel frowned, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Good morning to you too. How's the wife?"

"Still alive. In spite of everything." He waved a hand at the seat across the table before Schneizel could ask. "Sit, sit. It's been a while."

"Ten long years," Schneizel murmured in agreement. He smiled slightly at the waitress who brought them their coffee, pouring just enough for both of them before leaving the pot at their table. Bismarck didn't look like he'd ordered anything yet, but he must have helped himself to the bread basket. "So what was so urgent that it couldn't wait until dinner?"

Bismarck was adjusting his sunglasses and poring over the menu. "I like their steak and eggs. Have you tried it?" Again, Bismarck cut in before he could answer. "You should."

Schneizel sighed. "Fine, yes. Yes, that sounds lovely."

This was always the way these conversations worked. With coffee and rolls came the usual questions about work and weather, politics, other minutiae like that. Schneizel knew how to play this stupid game well enough, but Bismarck really had it down to a science.

By the time the food they'd ordered arrived, the topic shifted: did he know that his sister Cornelia was getting married? It was to be a farce of a marriage from day one, staged, to the eldest son of a minor family in Jersey that was starting to rise in prominence. Of course, his father was a fan of nipping all threats in the bud as much as he could, and his daughter's happiness was perhaps just a small price to pay.

Bismarck didn't ask _if_Schneizel was going to attend, he merely said this: "Wear a suit. Red tie."

"I don't think I have one."

"Buy one. The bridesmaids are going to be in red."

They lingered for warm-ups on their coffee even after their plates were cleared away, and when Schneizel glanced at the clock he realized he had only ten more minutes before he was going to be late for work, and that he had to fast-track this conversation now. "Did you really ask me to come here just for something I could have learned about in a wedding invitation?"

Bismarck chuckled gruffly into his coffee. "Those don't get sent out for another two weeks, at the soonest. Do Cornelia a favor and act surprised when you get them, will you?"

Schneizel wasn't smiling. "_Bismarck_."

"Fine." He sighed, and put the cup down. "Your father sent me to ask you about your progress on the Darlton case."

_Here we go._"I already told you," he said lowly, "that this would not be an easy fix."

"He assumed as much. That's why he sent for you."

"Of course." Schneizel chuckled bitterly. "Perhaps he ought to know, then, that two of the suspects are dead, one of them probably murdered in cold blood. One turned himself in, but isn't talking. Maybe if he hadn't ordered a muzzle on the press, it would be easier to move around, but as it stands - "

"So pay them off. Problem solved."

Schneizel scowled. "I take it you don't see a problem with the image of reporters accepting bribes from a police detective?"

"You _know _he would reimburse your costs."

Something unpleasant curled in the pit of his stomach. A part of him wanted to laugh, really. Leaving the Family had been his own choice, which was why he'd liquidated as much as he could the morning of that private meeting in his father's office, ten years ago. The very next day, as he was unpacking in his new apartment, was when he learned that the old man had shut down all accounts of his that had conjunctions in the 'Holder' field.

Fine, he'd said. He didn't need their blood money then, and he needed it even less now.

"No, maybe you're right. Never mind that." Bismarck waved a hand in front of his face. "I will take care of the press from here."

"...Thank you," Schneizel managed, but a bit warily. He wasn't sure he liked the tone the other man had used, and what it implied.

Then again, it wasn't as if he had any opinion on the matter. He'd lost that privilege long ago.

Or maybe he never had it to begin with.

"Why is he so keen on seeing this solved, anyway?" Schneizel finally asked. "A murder I could understand, but a robbery pulled on someone who's not only outside of the Family, but _against _it?"

"Your father's reasons," Bismarck began carefully, "are not essential to your task, are they?"

"No, but they're certainly _relevant_. If anything, at least I can get a clue as to..." Schneizel trailed off then. Realizing something, he narrowed his eyes. "What was in that safe?"

"That doesn't matter either."

"No... no, it _does_ matter." At the very least, from the recording he knew that Tristan had seen the contents, and was more than a little underwhelmed. But one man's trash... "You know what it was, don't you? But you don't want anyone _else _to, which is why you've asked me, of all people, to sort this out."

"Will you?"

That was actually a good question. "What's to stop me from walking away?" Schneizel furrowed his brows, and a ghost of a smile played across his lips. "As far as I can tell, I've got nothing to gain by solving this case, nothing to lose by botching it either. It would just be easier for me to maintain the status quo."

"If you don't help us, then your father will have to reclaim the... item in question. Using his _own _devices." Bismarck gave him a look. "What kind of status quo are you visualizing?"

Whatever traces of the smile that were there before vanished now. He recalled the file photos of Alstreim's corpse, Kanon's blunt words as Weinberg exited the room in handcuffs, willingly. The dream -

"So this is how it's going to be, then," he murmured, "from now on."

Bismarck drained his coffee. He stood up then, re-buttoned his suit jacket, and withdrew a stack of bills from his pocket. He left it on the table without counting. "Take care, Schneizel. I will be in touch."

He had no reason to doubt that.

Still, as he endured the chilly walk to his office, it wasn't as though he had much of a choice at this point. He'd already invested too much of his time and sanity into this case. As far as he was concerned, this - all of this - would have to end cleanly, or not at all.

Schneizel frowned as walked through the door. The first thing he noticed was that Kanon was not yet there. Frowning, he looked over to the desk clerk, who was loudly chewing gum. "Did he call in to say he was running late?"

"Sure did," she said, not even looking up. "Twenty minutes ago."

"Right." Still, there was something... off. He sniffed the air once, twice, unable to place what was bothering him. "Did someone else come in?"

"Delivery boy. Brought flowers."

Schneizel frowned. He didn't order any flowers. "For whom?"

"I dunno."

His frown deepened. He glanced at the empty page of the logbook in front of him, open to today's date. "Well, what time did he come out?"

The desk clerk looked up at him, gave him an apologetic look, and just shrugged.

Schneizel sighed, and began walking, following the scent of flowers. He didn't even bother to take his coat off yet, determined to find where this trail ended before heading to his office.

As it turned out, though, he didn't have to. He found the basket of assorted flowers - white lilies mostly, set against small pink carnations and various sprigs of greenery - right on top of his desk.

He still hadn't moved a few minutes later, when Kanon walked in. "Sorry I'm late, I thought you - oh." He blinked. "Oh."

Schneizel should have shushed him for that, but didn't.

Because Suzaku, curled up and sleeping under a worn jacket on one of the chairs, didn't even stir.

.

* * *

.

Schneizel wasn't really surprised that Suzaku drank his coffee black. What did surprise him was how _much _he could put away, chugging at his third cup in about the same time Kanon had used to brew six. A boy after his own heart.

"So," Schneizel began, addressing Suzaku while handing the empty pot to Kanon. "Why don't we start from the beginning?"

"There is no beginning." Suzaku was staring at the coffee cup in his hands. He held onto the porcelain tightly, clearly not bothered by the heat. "Someone broke into my apartment last night - he had a gun. He tried to kill me."

"So much for this only 'tangentially' being a homicide case," Kanon murmured then.

Schneizel smiled a little, but couldn't quite bring himself to laugh. "Can you give a description?"

Suzaku shook his head. "It was dark, and it kind of happened too fast. He was wearing a mask, I think, anyway."

"What kind of a mask? Ski mask?"

"No, it was... more like a helmet, sorry. Hard." Suzaku made a vague motion with his hand. "The whole face area was opaque. The rest of his clothes were dark too."

Schneizel was taking notes at this time, but other, unrelated thoughts were running through his head. "Are you hurt?"

"Not really. I'm fine, though I can't say the same for my furniture. Or walls." Suzaku smiled then, and finished that cup as well. "I managed to escape through the window - "

"You mean," Kanon cut in, "like you did when you bailed on my partner last time?"

Suzaku drew back at that, and scratched at the back of his head. "Well... when you put it like _that_..."

He trailed off and didn't seem to have any plans of continuing that thought. Schneizel sighed, and turned around. "Kanon, why don't you - put on another pot of coffee, please? Wouldn't want the whole office to descend into chaos, thinking it's gone."

It took a few more meaningful looks before Kanon got up, taking the hint.

Sighing once more, Schneizel pulled off his glasses. He waited for the door to close before he moved away from the chair behind his desk. He then sat down on the other one, beside Suzaku, pulling at the armrest of his until the boy was facing him. "All right, level with me. Why are you here?"

Suzaku blinked at him, rather startled. "I already told you. A man came for me - "

"And tried to kill you, yes, I got that. And now I have to worry about a killer on the loose," he grumbled. Though, he wasn't too sure about that - if this was anything like Alstreim, it seemed to be very specific, _targeted_. "Why did you come here, specifically?"

"I didn't really know where else to go," Suzaku admitted. "I thought, that maybe..."

Schneizel studied his face carefully.

Suzaku didn't have to say it; he understood after only a few seconds.

"You think I can protect you." He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the chair. "And you're right - I can." If the old man was sending thugs after petty, barely-legal thieves now, he figured the safest place for Suzaku would be with his (albeit disgraced) son. "But in return," he continued, "I'm going to need something from _you_. Do you understand? This has to go both ways."

Suzaku bit on his lip, hesitating. He fiddled with the empty coffee cup, weighing his options.

(And like this, as well, he looked so painfully young - in way over his head.)

"Okay." Suzaku finally sighed, and set the cup down. Reaching into one of the front pockets of his jeans, he withdrew a slip of paper that had been folded several times. He handed it to Schneizel wordlessly. "This was what was in the safe - well, part of it, anyway."

Schneizel took it from him. From the jagged tear along one edge it was clear the page had been ripped out of a book. It wasn't of any standard size, at least not from what he could tell. And running along the page, in two neat columns, were rows upon rows of numbers: nine digits each, some of them crossed out haphazardly with a pen.

"And, what am I looking at exactly?"

"That's the problem." Suzaku shrugged. "I have no idea."

Schneizel frowned. "Was this the only item that was in the safe?"

"No... well, sort of." Suzaku shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It was part of a book, all of the pages were like that. But the whole book was too bulky to take out so I ripped off a page."

"Where is the book now?" he asked sharply.

"Still there, in the safe." Suzaku sighed. "Tristan and I thought we'd been duped - we tossed the book back in and shut the door."

"But you'd already been _made_, why the hell would you do that?!" Schneizel almost didn't realize that he was half-shouting by now. "That was why Percival panicked, that was why he shot and killed the doorman who spotted you. Why in God's name would you have gone through all the trouble of getting that safe open, and then _leave the goddamn loot inside?_"

"We-we panicked, okay?" Suzaku blurted out. "It wasn't as though the loot was anything valuable - we thought if we didn't make off with it, we'd get a better chance in case... you know, we got caught."

_Famous last words_; Schneizel bit back the comment, and said instead, "But you ripped off a page. Why?"

Suzaku opened his mouth to speak... and then shut it again. He didn't seem to have any good answer to that.

Sighing heavily, Schneizel forced himself to calm down. Placing his hands on the boy's shoulders, he said quietly, "Listen. I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question." He paused. "Besides this book, was there anything else in that safe? Anything at all?"

There wasn't even a moment of hesitation before Suzaku shook his head emphatically. "Nothing."

A beat passed. Schneizel stood up then, stalking past the flowers to the window.

After reaching a mental dead-end, he turned around and grabbed Suzaku's wrist with one hand, his coat with the other. The desk clerk looked startled as they passed her on the way out, but before she could say anything, Schneizel loudly announced that he was 'taking a sick day'.

.

* * *

.

"So... you're a fixer."

Catherine grinned. "That would be the most common term for what I do, yes." She was lounging on the couch again, taking up all of it, forcing Schneizel onto the leather chair and Suzaku to settle for the ottoman. "Though that's such a limiting word. In a nutshell, I try to make things happen, so to speak."

Suzaku looked even more confused at that, so Schneizel sighed and filled in. "She specializes in... making certain arrangements for her clients. Arrangements that, well, may not necessarily be legal."

She nodded serenely. "Red tape is both a chore and a bore."

Suzaku looked like he was the only person in the room who legitimately found that clever. "What kinds of arrangements?"

"_All _kinds of arrangements." She looked at him, and her eyes danced with mischief. "Documents, discreet liaisons, or in this case..." She nodded at Schneizel, "providing information."

Schneizel poured himself more coffee as he allowed Suzaku to digest that on his own. If there was anything that fully convinced him that this boy had no business being a career criminal at all, much less going after a target like Darlton, it was the fact that Suzaku had apparently no clue that people like Catherine Crane existed. "Even official documents? Say, passports, birth certificates...?"

She snorted. "In my sleep." Playing with her hair, she added, "I also have a number of freelance projects going on, none of which I can discuss at this time. Unfortunately."

Schneizel rolled his eyes and took a generous sip of his coffee. There was always something different about coffee brewed at home, something that put him at ease. The way it filled his apartment with that telltale fragrance certainly didn't hurt, in any case. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

"I have a few ideas." She nibbled on pizza crust and glanced at Suzaku, who was sitting rather stiffly with his hands on his knees. "You're the one who found this, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So cute. But don't call me that." Schneizel chuckled through the boy's stuttered apology, but Catherine merely drew a long breath. "I'm going to need a bit of time to get to the bottom of this. Darlton isn't back in the city for another six weeks, and if this book you're speaking of is something worth killing for, I suppose it's strictly for his eyes only." She pursed her lips, tapping a long fingernail against the upholstery. "Hopefully, between now and then no-one will know that the book was tampered with."

Schneizel turned to Suzaku. "Who else knows you ripped off a page?"

"No-one. Not even Tristan."

"That's good then." Catherine polished off her pizza and her wine, and fixed them both with a smile. "It would be best if we kept it that way. Now," he leaned forward, and beckoned with her hand. "I'll need that page, if you please."

Suzaku drew back, and his features pulled into an uneasy frown. "Is that.. really necessary? I could make a copy."

Catherine shook her head insistently. "I understand that owning this provides you with a certain kind of protection. But if you want me to help you, boy, it's the same deal: if I don't have the original, my bargaining power with _certain _agents will be... shall we call it," she glanced meaningfully at Schneizel, "greatly diminished."

Suzaku hesitated, still. Eventually, Schneizel was the one who snatched the paper from him, folded it, and handed it over.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll protect you."

The boy shot him a questioning glance, but Catherine merely stood up and began pulling on her heels. She placed the paper down the front of her dress and gave them both a satisfied smile. "I'll be in touch."

Schneizel avoided Suzaku's eyes and nodded, already starting to clean up the discarded pizza box and empty wine glasses. He was about to head back into the kitchen when Catherine's voice stopped him again:

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"...Of course." He deposited everything onto the counter for now, retrieved his checkbook, and paid her the usual fee.

And then, right in front of Suzaku, he handed her the burn phone.

.

* * *

.

Long after Catherine had left, Suzaku was helping Schneizel with the dishes when he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Schneizel merely shrugged. "Her methods may seem unorthodox, but she's very good at what she does." Besides, he would much rather not use any official channels for this kind of sleuthing (and he was sure this would be one of the few things he and his father would agree on). He was not going to tell Suzaku that, though.

The boy shook his head. "That's not what I meant. Why are you doing _this_... you know, taking me in?"

Schneizel pondered that question as he dried the glasses. He decided to give the default response first: "You said so yourself, you've clearly become a target now. Given the type of people who are after you, even if I put you up in a safe house, that would leave some kind of paper trail. Also, I highly doubt you can survive in prison as well as someone like Tristan. That means the safest place for you right now, would actually be... right here."

Suzaku seemed to accept this, and nodded slowly. "You don't mind, though? That I'm imposing on you like this?"

"It's no imposition," Schneizel assured him, shaking his head. "I could use some help around the house, anyway. Can you cook?"

"...Functionally."

"Still better than me, then," he muttered. So far, he'd survived ten years on restaurant and diner takeout, or food that came in plastic trays meant for the microwave. Maybe this would be a welcome change of pace.

It was just too bad they couldn't have passed by Suzaku's place beforehand. Granted, the boy probably didn't have anything particularly of value, and it was probably still too dangerous to go back there. Still, all Suzaku currently had to his name were a few mementos and one change of clothes that fit in a single backpack, and Schneizel had a feeling that anything he'd lend the boy to wear would end up absolutely swimming on him.

"So how long am I going to stay here?"

He shrugged. "Until Catherine gets back to us with something useful. Beyond that, I don't know."

Suzaku nodded again, and Schneizel thought that maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Six weeks would be the logical maximum - if Catherine couldn't get anything tangible for them before Darlton returned, it would be game over anyway.

Six weeks. Maybe less. It would be fine.

"Why are you really doing this?"

The water from the faucet stopped. He could feel Suzaku's eyes on him, intent... _demanding_.

Why, indeed.

"You remind me of someone," Schneizel admitted. His gaze flickered to the sink, the counter - the backsplash with the tiles that reflected his own uncertainty. "Someone who was in a bad spot - been in it for some time."

Suzaku could have asked the obvious question then. Schneizel would have been ready for it, even. Instead, though, he asked, "What happened?"

Schneizel grit his teeth. "I ended up having to take him to jail."

"Why?"

"Because at that point, that was the only thing I could do to save him." The reasoning sounded hollow even to his own ears, even though it was the truth. "Not that it wasn't a long time coming - not that there weren't signs. I should have acted on them. I should have helped him before it became too late."

He'd known it from the moment he snapped those handcuffs on the old man's favorite son (though he'd never admit it), the day he turned his back on the Family - that this memory was a burden he would have to carry for the rest of his life.

Conjuring it never seemed to get easier, though. Perhaps it never would.

"I'm sorry," Suzaku murmured quietly. "For what it's worth, I don't... plan to end up like that."

"Funny," Schneizel chuckled. "Neither did he."

Suzaku didn't say anything on the matter anymore, and Schneizel appreciated that more than he let on.

.

* * *

.

Weeks bled into one another after that, with Schneizel and his new houseguest falling into something that closely resembled a routine faster than either of them seemed to anticipate. It was really only a one-bedroom apartment, so Suzaku slept on his couch while Schneizel usually barricaded himself in his bedroom at night, working.

He was tempted to call it his own personalized witness protection program, had Suzaku been just a witness anyway.

He would wake up in the morning to find Suzaku at the stove, making eggs and toast and coffee. After the requisite small talk, it was off to work, and another day of telling Kanon that no, he still had no idea where Lancelot was after he'd lost sight of him that day and yes, he would keep looking.

In any other case, he would have felt more guilty than he did, lying to his partner like this. But this way, if everything blew up in his face, at least everyone else in the department would be clean.

It was certainly a big gamble to make, considering the person he was protecting, and what he was risking by doing so.

But Suzaku wasn't terrible company at all. If Schneizel had been more cynical, he would have told himself that the only reason Suzaku hadn't yet robbed him blind was because he _knew _that if he tried anything stupid like that, Schneizel would have him out on the street in minutes. The boy didn't seem genuinely interested in anything like that, though, instead perfectly content to go through the collection on Schneizel's bookshelf, from the top down, left to right.

"You read a lot of science fiction."

"Guilty pleasure. Don't let anyone know."

"I don't see what's so wrong with it." A pause. "In another life, would you have been a scientist?"

Schneizel had chuckled then. "Not a scientist, no - I don't quite have the aptitude for that. I might have gone into patent law, though. Or, something more on the management side."

"How did you eventually decide on 'cop'?"

Schneizel had just smiled then, and Suzaku took the hint.

Still, it was nice to have some help around the house, especially when Schneizel became more and more engrossed in his work. There were days when he would be sitting at his desk on a Saturday morning, still in his work clothes from the day before, typing up reports and hunting though endless archives of old newspapers, looking for trends to help him through this case or that. It never seemed to end; homicides didn't take a break just because the old man had asked a favor of him. On days like those it was nice not to have to worry about picking up the dry-cleaning.

Suzaku knocked on his bedroom door one Thursday night, a few weeks in. He poked his head in at Schneizel's noncommittal grunt, and said, "It's eleven o'clock."

"I have a watch. And a phone."

"You went in there at five. I haven't seen you come out since."

Schneizel chuckled, partly at what Suzaku said, and partly because he thought he was now one step closer to netting a suspect that had left two dead girls in a dumpster in Queens... "Worried about me?"

"To be honest? A little bit, yeah."

"I'm fine. I'm fine." He sighed, lifting the mug on his desk - it was empty. So was his travelling mug. There was a large plastic Dunkin Donuts cup on the table which had maybe about a shot's worth left. "Can you make some coffee?"

"I made soup if you'd like."

Schneizel paused at that. He glanced at the clock again, and realized he hadn't ingested anything that _wasn't_caffeinated for the past ten hours.

"What kind?"

"Potato-bacon."

He squinted. "We had _both_of those things on hand?"

Suzaku nodded and smiled. "Though, 'had' is really the operative word right now. Coming?"

It was lukewarm when he got to the table, had a pinch too much cheese, and tasted just slightly burnt, but it was the best soup Schneizel could remember having in a long, long time.

Or maybe it was the wine that colored his perception, from a bottle he'd uncorked for himself. At least, that had been his intention, until Suzaku started pestering him. Schneizel had told him that the legal drinking age had been 21 for at least 27 years, but Suzaku had shot back _'not unless the alcohol is given by the legal guardian, and isn't that what you are, technically?'_

Schneizel had been so impressed by that that he poured Suzaku a glass with a laugh, after making him promise that _none_ of this was leaving the apartment. _'Deal'_.

This wouldn't even be among the first three laws he'd broken since taking Suzaku in, anyway.

.

* * *

.

"It's not so scary when you make it as simple as possible, really. For example: if I can hold a position for say, seven seconds without changing anything, that means I'm not going anywhere unless I want to. Otherwise, I just always have to adjust."

Suzaku was saying this as stood atop one of Schneizel's dining chairs, balancing it on its two hind legs. One of his feet was on the very edge of the seat, the other planted with the arch of his foot curling slightly around the top of the chair's back. The chair swayed occasionally about an inch or so either way, which Suzaku would correct for by lifting an arm, or tensing a calf, or even just tilting his head.

"It looks like you're breaking physics," Schneizel commented, seated very normally on the chair beside him.

Suzaku laughed, causing the chair - and himself - to teeter for a moment.

"Get down from there," he admonished, "before you break something."

"I won't break your chair. If I do, I'll pay for it."

"Idiot, I meant _you_."

Suzaku smiled, meeting his eyes. There was something warm in his gaze. "Okay, here's another one: there are no mid-air corrections. If my feet leave the ground - or, as is usually the case, whatever they're planted on - I'm going wherever that first jump takes me, whether I like it or not."

He turned his head slowly, slowly, until he caught sight of the kitchen counter, about five feet behind him.

Schneizel watched him as he bent his legs and crouched precariously, before kicking off the chair. He did so unevenly, his left leg kicking late so that the chair was upright after he'd tucked his legs into himself, flipped over, and landed gracefully atop the granite.

"Show-off." But Schneizel couldn't help but chuckle, and he clapped slowly as Suzaku took a mock bow. He refilled his wine glass as Suzaku returned to the table, helping himself to more soup. This was... probably the boy's fifth helping by now.

"Why steal?" Schneizel asked suddenly, watching him. "I can think of at least ten other avenues off the top of my head with which you can make a living from your talents. Why turn to crime?"

Suzaku's smile faded a little, and he didn't say anything until he'd finished the rest of his soup. When that happened, he sighed and pushed the bowl back, tapping a finger on the surface of the table. "Is this an interrogation again?"

Schneizel laughed, and jerked a thumb at the bottle. "Do you really think any of this is going on the record?"

"Can't be too careful," Suzaku chuckled. "What would be the point, then?"

"Curiosity. Indulge me."

"Hmmm." Suzaku kept tapping on the table, keeping his eyes downcast. If there was a song playing in his head, Schneizel couldn't identify it. "I guess it's one of those things that... you just sort of start, and can't stop."

Schneizel frowned. "Like an addiction?"

"Oh no." Suzaku laughed, and shook his head. "No, nothing like that. When my parents died, my uncle took me in. He was part of a contemporary circus that did shows along the East Coast. We were on the road a lot, and he trained me."

Schneizel nodded, running his finger along the rim of the wine glass. "And then what happened?"

"And then he died." Suzaku was very cavalier about it, stretching out his arms above his head as he continued. "His trapeze snapped during rehearsal one day. Circus management swore it was an accident."

"Was it?" he asked, tone soft.

"I don't know. I'd like to think so, anyway. I think... that's easier." Suzaku shook his head. "But some men came by after that: they told me, my uncle had owed them a debt. They were pulling a job at the end of that month, and it was too late to find a replacement for him." He sniffed. "I was 14 at that time."

Schneizel had a very strong feeling that he knew where this was going, but he motioned for Suzaku to continue.

"Anyway, it was just one job, they said. That they wouldn't bother me after it was done, and that my share would... help with the burial costs. Among other things."

He probably didn't even have to ask, but... "How did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect." He laughed shortly. "I got stuck holding the bag. After that... well, people _talk_. Once you get involved in something like that..." He smiled weakly. "The world never really lets you forget about it."

Schneizel watched silently as the tapping grew louder, faster. He didn't want to think about how sad Suzaku looked, how much regret clearly shone through those green eyes.

Instead, probably against his better judgment, he refilled Suzaku's glass. "I think you just have to not stop trying," he said quietly.

"I know," Suzaku nodded. "Still, it would be easier, you know?" He chuckled. "If I could get a fresh start." Suzaku took a sip of wine that ended up with him emptying the glass.

Schneizel had to tell himself then that the guilt he felt right now was misplaced. Because _he_had been fortunate enough to get out, to manage to claw out of the cycle of death and fear that was his father's legacy, that didn't mean everyone who wanted 'out' got that chance. Wanting it wasn't enough.

Even working for it wasn't enough either. It had taken Schneizel a fair bit of luck.

If giving Suzaku wine had been a lapse in judgment, then the next few minutes were testament to a _colossal failure_on Schneizel's part.

It began when he stood up, walked over to Suzaku, and pulled him into a hug.

He wasn't even really sure what he was offering - consolation, maybe, or strength. Or even, something as simple as warmth. The boy looked as though he could use some right now. In any case, Schneizel was expecting Suzaku to pull away.

He was not at all expecting Suzaku to press a soft kiss against the corner of his lips.

(One could say that the quality of his judgment went downhill quickly after he began kissing back.)

.

* * *

.

And it was wrong, so very wrong, but those soft soft lips were warm against his skin when Suzaku told him it was all right, it was all right, and they'd not speak of it in the morning. And when Suzaku twisted his body so that he could wrap his legs around Schneizel's waist, arching his back fully against the mattress, Schneizel thought that he couldn't remember the last time he found anything so _beautiful_.

.

* * *

.

Catherine returned a month and a half after that night, exactly 72 hours before Darlton's flight in was to land at La Guardia. She arrived at almost 10 pm that day, tracking rain all over the floor, sporting bright red hair and blue contacts. Schneizel almost didn't recognize her; Suzaku definitely didn't.

In any case, although it was a close finish, she knew _what_the page was now. "They're social security numbers," she told them, and there was clear excitement in her voice. "I should have known, from the way the numbers were aligned. Each of these SSN's," she paused for effect, "corresponds to a cop on the Mafia's payroll."

Schneizel was staring at the printed sheet he'd taken from Catherine's hands. Listed on the page were the numbers in question, and the names of those cops on the right-hand side. There were some _familiar_names there, he noticed. "Which families?"

"Oh, multiple families." She sounded bored, and took the bottle of wine, idly reading the fine print on the label. "The scope of involvement was rather broad - basically, if you were so much as spotted taking gift baskets from certain notorious citizens in exchange for going blind for six hours on patrol, you got put on the list. If you know what I mean."

He knew exactly what she meant. And something told him he didn't really have to ask: "Among those multiple families..."

She didn't let him finish, anyway. "Of _course_. Don't be daft."

Schneizel set his jaw. Everything made sense now, all of a sudden. Though, if the coiling in his gut was anything to go by, he wasn't sure hindsight was as much of a gift as it was usually made out to be.

"Do you have any idea how he acquired all this?"

"I would have to say, a very organized network of informants." Catherine took the liberty of pouring herself more wine, but Schneizel didn't even notice. "It took a while to get a foot in the door, but all you really need is _one_, you know? One chip in the armor, one lonely overworked P.I. at the eleventh hour of a twelve-hour stakeout..."

Schneizel shook his head and decided he didn't need any more details. "How accurate do you think his information is?"

"From what I've seen? Pretty accurate." Catherine shrugged and sauntered over until she was hovering over him, filling his nostrils with the smell of jasmine. She tapped a long black-painted nail against one of the names. "This woman graduated from the Academy just seven months ago. She was probably groomed from the start, anyway."

"So this list is up-to-date," Schneizel murmured. He wasn't sure how that made him feel. More precisely, he wasn't sure how _any_of this made him feel.

"Yes, up-to-date," Catherine echoed. "Hear that, love? That means your number probably won't be in it, so look alive."

He stiffened, and pretended he didn't notice Suzaku's questioning glance. "Don't start. I left that life long ago."

"And yet, you keep calling me for favors." She grinned and tilted her head. "What does that say about your commitment to the straight and narrow, hmmm?"

He shot her a glare, but she simply winked and turned to Suzaku, who had been quietly watching this exchange.

"You said there was a whole book in the safe, right?"

The boy nodded.

"Pages?"

He hesitated. "It was thin. Around fifty-ish, give or take? Definitely less than a hundred."

She tipped her head from side to side, staring at the ceiling as she did the math. "That's still a lot of names. New York's Finest, indeed."

Schneizel was still deep in thought, his brow furrowed deeply.

"Even if all this was true..." Suzaku was the one who eventually broke the silence, asking, "What exactly can he do with it?"

Catherine and Schneizel exchanged glances as she quipped, "He can spill it, creating the scandal of the year - possibly the decade. He can use it to coerce several very powerful individuals whenever he wants. Or, he could hold onto it until the best opportunity comes - oh, I can already think of a _few_."

She wasn't the only one. "Information is power," Schneizel sighed.

"The better question would be, what _can't _he do with it?"

He shook his head. "Darlton's too righteous to use it for blackmail. No, he's going to go public with this. What better way to run on an anti-organized crime platform than a purge of the NYPD?"

Catherine hummed. "An investigation like that would be intensive. If he times it right, he can have it wrapped up just in time for the primaries. Not that _you_have anything to worry about, do you?"

Schneizel didn't answer that. Instead, he took the bottle from her, taking a direct swig.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Catherine handing Suzaku a piece of paper - the original page, creased and crumpled from the sound of it. "Here you go, sorry for the less than presentable state - it's changed a _lot _of hands."

"Thank you."

"I wouldn't. It's practically useless now." She shrugged dramatically, and her hair spilled over her shoulder in waves. "Gambits open the game, after all. Keep watching the news." She sighed, and said longingly, "What I wouldn't give to have that book in my hands."

Catherine was polishing off the last slice of pizza as she updated the information once more on the burn phone. Schneizel cleared away the wine glasses, but Suzaku just sat there for a long time.

Finally, just as she was about to leave, he asked, "What would you do?"

Both of them looked up.

"If you had it, I mean," Suzaku clarified. He was toying with the cuffs of the sleeves of his sweater - _Schneizel's_sweater, actually. It was far too big for him. "What would you do with it?"

Catherine smiled. Schneizel couldn't quite read the look in her eyes.

"I would hold it close to my heart."

.

* * *

.

Late that night, long after Catherine had left, Schneizel lit his first cigarette in two and a half years.

He blew smoke out of his lips and closed his eyes, feeling the familiar pulse of nicotine. Four times, he'd tried to quit in his lifetime, ever since that first drag at sixteen. Four times, he'd failed.

It was too late to make a play for Darlton's book now. Even if he tried to obtain it legally, and by some miracle was able to produce a warrant for it, it was just far too late. He knew because when he turned on the news at eleven, keeping the sound turned off, he saw two names he'd _just _read off on that list displayed prominently on the screen - police officers that had been found, blindfolded and dead of single bullet wounds to the backs of their heads.

No, it was far too late to do this the _right _way.

The path of least resistance would just be to let things go. As far as the patriarch of Britannia was concerned, he'd disowned his second son ten years ago; even if Darlton went public with the list, Schneizel would be immune to the ensuing fallout. He could keep his badge.

But in that case...

He blew another puff of smoke onto the glass, and frowned, cracking open the window. The hinges creaked as he did so, and he paused, throwing a glance back at the bed.

Suzaku lay there, curled up under both of his blankets, covered in fleece from the neck down.

Whether or not the men after Suzaku were really under his father's employ wouldn't matter for very long. if he stepped back and just let the chips fall, there would be no reason for those men to leave the boy alive. Nor, he thought grimly, would his father look kindly upon what he would perceive as a failure, much less grant Schneizel any favors.

That left him with only one clear option.

He had to wonder if it was worth it, though. In twelve hours his father could have his most loyal soldiers cover the city thrice, destroying evidence, burning bridges, tying loose ends (or cutting them off cleanly, if need be). It wouldn't even take much. Just a warning from him, a word, in exchange for Suzaku's life.

And then the Britannia family would come out unscathed, and Schneizel would have been the prime mover for their extreme fortune.

But what had Catherine said, earlier? Something about his 'commitment to the straight and narrow', or lack thereof.

Schneizel cursed and pulled the window shut when the breeze that blew in proved too chilly for his liking.

No matter which option he chose, there would be chaos. Those names would come out, and the NYPD would take a serious hit. There would be soul-searching. Men would _die_, good men and bad men alike. What was one less corpse at the end of the day, especially of such a young boy who wanted no part of this kind of life?

As he dialled Bismarck's number slowly on his cellphone, he figured the only price to pay would be his integrity, if that even counted for anything anymore. Integrity didn't have a heartbeat, after all.

"No, not over the phone." He kept his voice hushed, watching Suzaku sleep. "Tomorrow, brunch. ...No, believe me, he'll _want_to hear this. I promise."

.

* * *

.

The next morning, Schneizel awoke to sunlight, and to find the other side of the bed wanting for warmth. In its place, on the nightstand was a note scribbled on the back of the receipt for Catherine's pizza from the day before.

_'Thank you for everything'_ and _'I won't let you take the fall' _were the two lines that leapt out at him most.

_No_.

Immediately he shot to his feet, cursing to high heaven, his heart hammering. The filthy, worn backpack that had housed Suzaku's belongings was gone.

And so was the burn phone.

.

* * *

.

Schneizel didn't need Kanon's successive, increasingly frantic texts: he saw and heard the squad cars arriving in a line, seven of them (_overkill_) with their sirens blaring. He sighed, pocketed his phone, and stepped out of his car.

Ever since he moved to New York, he could not remember having a single peaceful Saturday.

He waited for the policemen to jog up the street before cutting off their path a good distance away, raising his badge to eye-level. "I'm Detective Britannia," he announced calmly, "Homicide. You two can block off all the exits at street level, the rest of you are with me."

"Sir," one of the men looked surprised. "Has there been a death?"

"Not yet. But the suspect," he nodded towards the building to his right, "is involved in an ongoing homicide investigation. And if we wait any longer, there just might be." He sighed. "Are there any other questions?"

There were no more, just a chorus of '_Sir!_', which was as it should be.

"Good." Schneizel nodded, and began heading to the rear entrance. The rhythmic patter of footsteps against the pavement behind him was in sync with his own heartbeat, but he'd been at this job long enough so that it didn't show. "We've taken down all the elevators remotely, so he's not going anywhere quickly. We'll start from the basement and work our way up."

"Yes, sir!"

By this time, they'd already just entered the basement. Washing machines and dryers lined opposite walls, and the air was moist and smelled of fabric softener. He gestured to the exit to the main hallway with his Glock, and waited for the men to file through.

Once the last man was out the door, he took out his cellphone. He scrolled to a contact he'd never actually used before - one that was labelled, simply, 'Burn' - and sent a one-word text:

_'Skylight'._

_Because the crowd of civilians had gathered outside, faintly murmuring about the daredevil that had scaled the side of the building; but the penthouse was still thirty floors up, and Darlton was still sixty hours away, and Catherine Crane could make a man disappear in a third of that time..._

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he waited until the men were several paces ahead of him before reading.

_'She says she'll miss you.'_

His team was only on the fifth floor when he saw shards of glass falling from above, outside, to the ground below.

He had just enough time to run to the window - blocking it, effectively - before Suzaku leapt.

(_"There are no mid-air corrections."_)

Schneizel could almost hear the collective gasp from the people watching down below, as Suzaku sailed through the air.

He cleared the gap to the adjacent building while making it look like the easiest thing in the world, and Schneizel couldn't help a smile from taking over his face, and the feeling that something had been lifted from his chest.

They pushed on.

The last time he saw the boy was when they were both on the eighteenth floor - of their respective buildings, Suzaku meeting his eyes through two windows and the thin air between them. And he still was such an idiot: wearing only a fresh jacket and a pair of sunglasses (Darlton's, by his guess) to mask his identity.

There was a moment - a few seconds in which neither of them waved, nor mouthed 'goodbye', but just stood there and stepped away from the chaos around them.

A moment.

And then it was gone, and Suzaku had turned around, and Schneizel had too, sharply ordering his men _forward_.

.

* * *

.

It had been a relatively clean break-in - other than the broken skylight and the open, empty safe, there was nothing in Darlton's apartment that looked as though it had been disturbed at all.

The official report, and the story he was forced to tell the press, was that this was a separate incident - an unidentified suspect, possibly an aspiring copycat who had been inspired by the botched heist targeting Andreas Darlton's apartment eight weeks ago, was still at large. Witnesses gave inconsistent descriptions, and it was impossible to get something useful from even the best sketch artists when all accounts involved the subject at least 300 feet up. Though, if anyone had any information, they were more than welcome to call in any tips or show up to the station to give a statement. Et cetera.

Darlton himself, predictably, could not be reached for comment.

Bismarck, however, _could_. And although he sounded red in the face when Schneizel called to cancel their meeting - and, pre-emptively, all others from here on - he was still the one who ended the call abruptly, after cursing at Schneizel in at least three languages.

Not too long after that, he received one last text, from 'Burn': _'And I'll miss you too.'_

Schneizel smiled at that, and flipped his phone closed.

It was a good day to be a free man.

.


End file.
